


Je t'aimais, je t'aime, je t'aimerai

by Bohemian (Linguam)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Fluff, M/M, Malec in Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Bohemian
Summary: Alec can’t stop staring at Magnus’s mouth. It’s not exactly a novelty, given Alec’s near constant desire to kiss him, but watching Magnus nibble on an éclair while dressed in haut coutûre and sifting through Le Monde is an oddly specific kink that he didn’t know he had.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 17
Kudos: 170





	Je t'aimais, je t'aime, je t'aimerai

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a silly thing that I started writing when I heard about the fire that broke out in the Notre Dame. No plot or cohesiveness whatsoever. Set sometime in season 2B-3A.
> 
> The upcoming installment of Our Immortal Love is giving me some serious grief, but rest assured that it (and other stories within that series) will come.
> 
> Title "I loved you, I love you, I will love you" is from Amandine Bourgeois's song of the same name.

Alec frowns down at his plate. The ornate porcelain is barely visible underneath the many rolls and triangular shapes of lightly floured dough. Only a handful of the golden fleur-de-lis peek through.

“Pancakes are French?”

Magnus’s lips twitch. He’s lounging on one of the two _chaise longues_ on their Parisian penthouse balcony, wearing a shimmering, light blue robe. Alec is too busy eyeing his toned chest to even pretend to be offended by his exasperated eyeroll.

“ _Crêpes_ bear no resemblance to those flat, tasteless lumps of dough you shadowhunters call pancakes.”

“They look the same to me.” Alec tears his eyes from his boyfriend’s torso and raises an eyebrow. “And I’m pretty sure you magicked your own breakfast that time.”

“There are certain lines a man of my stature simply cannot cross, Alexander,” Magnus sniffs. He points at Alec’s plate with his fork, the steel gleaming in the morning sun. “Try the left one first. It’s chocolate filling.”

Alec wrinkles his nose.

“Dessert for breakfast? Can’t be much nutritional value in that.”

Magnus smirks.

“Welcome to France.” 

The Avenue des Champs-Élysées stretches out before them, a 1,2 miles long and 230 feet wide avenue canted by trimmed trees and pristine buildings, ending in a gold-tipped spire at the Place de la Concorde. Beyond it, the blossoming Tuileries Park and, further still, the massive museum and former fortress, the Louvre, the vessel and guardian of the world’s biggest art collection. The modern business district La Défense lies at their backs, its skyscrapers of glass and gleaming metal signaling the end of the Paris city center. To the left, the Sacré Coeur sits atop its hill, gazing out across the city like a brilliant pearl through thick green foliage.

“So,” Magnus says from his right. “What do you think?”

Alec tears his gaze from the historical axis and peeks through the iron railing down at the ground below. The twelve avenues spread out from the Arc de Triomphe like cut slices of cake.

“It’s very symmetrical,” he says. Maybe the formation is something he could incorporate in patrols, with the Institute as the midpoint. He’ll have to bring it up with Underhill when they get back. Pull up some schematics.

When there is no response, Alec turns to see Magnus watching him with fond eyes. The Eiffel Tower peeks up over his shoulder, a 1,036 feet tall monster of wrought-iron lattice.

“What?”

Magnus shakes his head, smiling. The sun hits his eyes, revealing gold beneath the brown.

“Don’t ever change, Alexander.”

Alec can’t stop staring at Magnus’s mouth. It’s not exactly a novelty, given Alec’s near constant desire to kiss him, but watching Magnus nibble on an éclair while dressed in haut coutûre and sifting through Le Monde is an oddly specific kink that he didn’t know he had.

Given the unnecessarily slow bite Magnus takes of the chocolate-y pastry, his boyfriend isn’t oblivious to it, either. Alec would be annoyed, except, well. He’s one lucky bastard and he knows it.

Magnus glances up at him through smirking eyes and love-mussed hair and _damn_ that’s unfair.

“Want a taste?” he asks, the picture of faux innocence.

Alec doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches over the table, hauls his boyfriend into his lap, and kisses chocolate-flavored laughter from his lips.

Magnus takes him to the Notre Dame. As he tells him about its history—its construction, the desecration during the revolution and the subsequent reconstruction—Alec’s eyes travel the soot-streaked façade of the Gothic cathedral.

“It could have been much worse,” Magnus murmurs. “The flèche—the spire—and parts of the roof were damaged, but other than that, the French firefighters and police managed to contain the fire.”

“It’s still an impressive structure.”

Magnus nods.

“It is. I wish I could restore it, but the spell required to wipe that many Mundane memories would deplete every Warlock in Europe.”

He throws Alec a smirk.

“That said, there is no reason for you to be deprived of its glory.”

With that, Magnus takes off towards the closed-off area, Alec in tow.

Even with a gaping hole where a large portion of the roof should be, the craftsmanship is beyond impressive. Alec is so busy ogling the ornate pillars and stained-glass windows—the vaults, ogives, and buttresses surrounding the rubble-covered main aisle, all reaching up towards the sky—that he almost jumps at the feel of familiar fingertips at his temples.

“Close your eyes,” Magnus murmurs, his voice dripping down Alec’s spine like tangible sunshine.

Magic tingles along Alec’s senses, and when he opens his eyes again, it’s a whole lot darker. Blinking, he gazes up at the repaired roof.

“It’s only an illusion,” Magnus says softly. “I doubt it’s fully accurate, but it’s how I remember it.”

Alec kisses him, because he can’t be expected not to.

They leave the Notre Dame and the Île de la Cité and make their way onto the Left Bank, home to the Latin Quarters. There, Magnus takes him from the zoo at Jardin des Plantes to the Sorbonne University, where he studied astrophysics and philosophy in the early seventies. 

They stop at the Nordic library and the famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company, and seemingly every bookstore in-between. While Alec browses through shelves upon shelves of modern to ancient literature, Magnus chats up the owners. Occasionally, he comes over and reads whatever title has found its way into Alec’s hands in flawless French, with a teasing smirk for how it makes Alec shiver.

The sun is about to set when they stop in the middle of a bridge crossing the Seine. Rays of warm light set the water sparkling before catching on the railing.

Curious, Alec walks closer.

“What’s with all the locks?”

“This is the Pont des Arts,” Magnus says. When Alec glances over his shoulder, his boyfriend is fiddling with his ear cuff. “Also known as the Bridge of Love. People come here with their loved one to fasten a lock on the railing and throw the key into the Seine. It’s supposed to symbolize eternal love.”

Thinking of a similar place in New York, a plan is already forming in Alec’s mind. He reaches for his boyfriend’s hand and pulls him close, planting a kiss at his temple.

“I love you.”

Magnus relaxes into him with a sigh.

“I love you, too, Alexander.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather portal back to New York?”

Alec tears his gaze from the field before them and turns around to see his boyfriend eyeing the airplanes warily. He looks apprehensive enough that Alec quickly reins in his fondness, lest it be mistaken for amusement.

“Magnus, we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” When Alec had suggested that they fly home, it had been more of a casual remark—another “first” for them, as individuals and as a couple. But, as with all things Alec suggested, Magnus had all but jumped on this rare initiative, despite his own trepidation.

Magnus crosses his arms.

“It’s not that I don’t want to...” At Alec’s raised eyebrow, he grimaces. “Fine, it is. I merely don’t see how an airborne bunker—” He gestures at the planes they can see through the windows. “—Could ever be considered ‘safe.’”

“Says the man who steps through literal rifts in the Earth’s atmosphere without blinking.”

“Considering I co-invented the portal, I am familiar with its workings. That is just…” He waves at the planes again. “Unnatural.”

Seeing Magnus out of his depth is rare, and more than a little entertaining, but Alec doesn’t want him to feel pressured into doing something he’s uncomfortable with, especially when he’s only doing it for Alec’s sake.

But before he can suggest that they portal home, Magnus heaves a sigh and looks skyward.

“I’m putting a protection spell on that plane,” he mutters.

Alec wraps an arm around his shoulders and smiles into his hair, chest stuttering with love and suppressed laughter.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> A note:
> 
> \- Love locks have been removed from the Pont des Arts since 2015 due to their combined weight causing structural damage to the bridge, but I'm ignoring that for the purpose of this story.
> 
> \- Alternate title: How Many Parisian Sites and References to French Culture and Customs Can Bohemian Fit Into One <1.5K Fic?


End file.
